


stolen voices cannot scream

by impetuousfool



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (sort of), Cooking, Dissociation, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hands, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, M/M, Nonverbal Jon, Trauma, he uses a cane you can't tell me otherwise!!, jon has chronic pain, jon loses time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27988113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impetuousfool/pseuds/impetuousfool
Summary: “It’s okay,” Martin had reminded him, every time he felt like doubting it. And then, with so much certainty that Jon’s chest had felt like it might explode, “Take your time.”Take your time.He had been, for years. Jon had been taking his time for so long that he had forgotten why. And Martin… Martin had always deserved more than that. Frankly, he didn’t understand why he bothered with him. Why someone so warm and caring, so full of love, had ever cared for someone like him. Empty, broken. He wasn’t ever good enough for his grandmother, so how could he even begin to be good enough for Martin?—Jon is trying his best to come to terms with who and what he is while they stay at the safehouse, but safety is an illusion that is so easily shattered.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 10
Kudos: 79





	stolen voices cannot scream

Hands had always felt strange to Jon. They wounded and tore and maimed without abandon. But they could create, too. It was just a matter of the right application. And maybe the right face. He had been told that a gentle touch of the shoulder could mean comfort, but every hand he saw was stained with blood or balled into a fist and meant to _hurt._

Until Martin, that is. A lot of things had been like that until Martin. 

Sometimes, he looked at his own useless hands and studied their hopeless ridges and pockmarked scars until he felt sick. He could stare at the jagged, uneven burn that Jude had left for hours, but he couldn’t remember what his hands looked like before she marked them. Before Jane and her worms got to them. 

It shouldn’t have mattered, of course. He should accept his imperfections, or so everyone told him. They didn’t feel like imperfections to him. They felt like they were mocking him for being such a pathetic failure.

Martin didn’t seem to mind. He didn’t mention it, at least, and he could pretend that meant he was unbothered by the litany of failings marbled across his skin.

One of their first days in the safe house, he’d found Jon curled up on the bed, picking at them mindlessly until there was blood buried beneath his fingernails and an acute burning on the surface of his skin. 

“Jon,” he’d said, worriedly, a cup of tea in his hands. Jon hadn’t noticed him until he sat on the bed. The feeling of it warping against the side of his leg brought him back down to earth, enough to begin to feel the prickling sensations where his nerves still worked and to smell the awful, familiar scent of blood. 

“Jon,” Martin had said again, placing the tea on the small set of drawers beside the bed. He had looked up then and the concern on Martin’s face had been all it took to shatter whatever small bit of resolve he had, and he cried pointless tears.

In that horrible moment, he had felt so utterly useless again. Another failure on the long list of failures he dared to call a life, and he couldn’t even bring himself to apologise for it. The words echoed in his head but his ability to speak had long since left him. All he could do was cry and smell the blood on his hands.

“Oh, Jon, it’s alright.” It wasn’t, but he could pretend it was, if Martin said so. And if he pretended enough, maybe he’d believe it. 

“Here,” he’d offered, extending an arm towards him just a little too quickly. Quickly enough that Jon flinched and felt all the guilt that went with it suffocate him until that was all he was. Again.

He shuffled awkwardly, feeling horrible for being afraid of _Martin,_ of all people. He loved him, for God’s sake, so why was he so scared? It felt like a betrayal to think of him that way, to wrap his hands up with those that wanted him to hurt, but he saw them behind his eyes every time someone reached out too quickly, or handed him something with a glance that contained just the right amount of venom to make him feel helpless. Like those hands were all over him again, burning him, holding him down, threatening him. 

He could taste blood in his mouth, now. Or was that just the smell?

Eventually, he’d shifted closer, burying the fear. Jon was used to fear, or he was supposed to be. That’s what he told himself. Jon was all fear, a living record of it, and he contained so much that he sometimes wondered how he still managed to sleep. Not that his sleep was ever restful, so full of nightmares as it was. There was always cold, blood-thirsty metal waiting behind closed eyes.

But he’d buried the fear (he always had, hadn’t he?), and then he buried himself. He’d buried himself into Martin’s warm, comforting chest. It was safe there, in his arms. His hands were hands that loved and cared.

“It’s okay,” Martin had reminded him, every time he felt like doubting it. And then, with so much certainty that Jon’s chest had felt like it might explode, “Take your time.”

_Take your time._

He had been, for years. Jon had been taking his time for so long that he had forgotten why. And Martin… Martin had always deserved more than that. Frankly, he didn’t understand why he bothered with him. Why someone so warm and caring, so full of love, had ever cared for someone like him. Empty, broken. He wasn’t ever good enough for his grandmother, so how could he even begin to be good enough for Martin?

He looked at his hands again and scrutinised them until he couldn’t bear to look at them any longer. All those righteous imperfections in the places he’d been hurt. He felt restless. He had to move, to do something _good_ with those ruinous hands of his, so he moved from his spot beside Martin on the sofa, wordlessly grasping his cane.

“Jon?” Martin raised his head from the book he’d been reading to look at him, quizzical but not judgemental. Jon pointed towards the kitchen and gave a weak smile. Martin understood. He always understood. 

“Would you like a hand?”

He thought about it for a minute. Jon could tell that he meant it. It wasn’t just a question he’d asked out of courtesy or pity. He nodded decisively and waited for Martin to join him. He watched him look around for a bookmark, sigh, and give up, before gently folding the edges of the page in his fingers. He did it so delicately. Martin had always been gentle. 

He mumbled an apology to the book, which earned him a fond smile from Jon, then offered his arm for him to lean on. He took it and rested his head on Martin’s shoulder, finding a light comfort in just existing silently beside him.

“Are you in much pain?”

Jon shrugged.

“That’s a yes, then,” he replied fondly, grinning in Jon’s direction. “How about I cook and you direct me? You don’t have to say anything, just show me.”

He felt tears sting at his eyes. He wasn’t used to this yet. Maybe he never would be. The way Martin offered himself so readily and just _cared._ They had time, Martin would always remind him, and Jon was starting to believe him. He sniffled and buried his head deeper into Martin’s shoulder, embarrassed at how easily he seemed to cry. Martin said nothing. He only placed a large, caring hand on Jon’s where he’d curled it around his arm and mindlessly rubbed melodic, soothing circles into the ridges of Jon’s hand with his thumb. 

They cooked, then. Jon didn’t remember much of it. Memory was difficult on the best of days, and today was far from that. He remembered gesturing to ingredients and showing Martin how to _properly_ dice an onion after a few disapproving grunts earned him a glare and a “if you’re so bothered by my technique, why don’t you teach me, Mister Jon ‘I-Can-Cut-Onions-Properly’ Sims?” Otherwise, there was very little he could recall. He didn’t even remember what the food had tasted like, although he imagined it was wonderful. He imagined a lot these days.

“Jon?” Martin questioned, bringing him from his thoughts and back to the present. It took him a moment for that to truly sink in, for him to gather himself enough to realise that they’d, somehow, found themselves on the downstairs bed. 

Not that it was a _surprise_ that they were both there, of course. That had happened the first day. There was another bed in the house, but they’d never used it. It just felt natural for them to share; it came so naturally to Jon that, when Martin asked about the upstairs bedroom, he’d been shocked and had to take a minute to gather himself. Martin had seemed relieved. Neither of them really wanted to be alone that night.

But no, the surprise wasn’t in the location itself, but rather that it was so dark outside. He’d expected it to be late evening, maybe, but not so dark that the world felt threatening again. It was only then that it really dawned on him just how _tired_ he was. 

Every word he thought of still felt like trying to drag himself across glass shards. _Useless,_ he thought, but the voice was not his own. It so rarely was, these days. He did wonder if there was any of _him_ left, after everything. He’d walked in so many people’s shoes, felt their fear and relived their stories first-hand, so how did he know if he was still, well, him? He couldn’t, but that didn’t help him feel any better.

But questions of the soul were a draining thing, and Jon didn’t have it in him anymore, so, lamely, he raised his hands and began to sign what he was so desperately trying to communicate: ‘What time is it?’

Martin smiled, briefly, but Jon could see the concern in his expression. The worry. He hated to think he was the cause of it. “Two in the morning. You slept for a bit, after we ate, but then you woke up at about ten and have been cleaning and adjusting things ever since. We don’t have to talk about it. Not— not now, or even ever, but if you want to, Jon… Well, I hope you know you can.”

He nodded. He was exhausted. The world felt heavy and oppressive and so did the sounds of the wood shifting in the cottage, but Martin felt like solace. Jon rolled closer, closing the gap between them so that he could find his place in his arms. That place where the world felt a little less cold, a little less mean; where Jon could believe, for a moment, that this serenity could last.

Martin held him as he always did, one hand gently tracing patterns down his arm, the other a firm and gentle reminder that he was there. And, here, he couldn’t feel the knife against his throat, or his flesh boiling beneath the skin. That couldn’t reach him here. There was nothing claustrophobic about being held like this and no one to tell him he was a monster. It was just him and Martin. Martin and his hands that treated him as delicately as he did his books, like he was something worthy of love. 

No, that wasn’t quite right. Not a something. Some _one.  
_

**Author's Note:**

> happy new year i've had this as a draft for weeks


End file.
